


brighter days coming your way

by helloshepard



Series: kaiju fic [1]
Category: Godzilla (2014), Godzilla - All Media Types, Godzilla: King Of The Monsters
Genre: Aftereffects of the Oxygen Destroyer, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead People, Dead animals, Injury Recovery, M/M, Other, References to Depression, Spoilers, Spoilers for Godzilla King of the Monsters, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-15 07:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19290694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloshepard/pseuds/helloshepard
Summary: KOTM AU. Rodan returns home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rodorah has been bugging me for...a week? Two? So here you go. Second chapter will be Ghidorah's POV. There's a heavy implication here that Serizawa lived (which I've decided is my own personal canon). cw for descriptions of canon-typical injuries and aftereffects of the oxygen destroyer, including descriptions of decomposing bodies.  
> Man. I'm tired of typing html tags.

Once it thrived, lush and green and filled with food and worshipers alike. Now his island is dead. It is deadbarrenEXTINGUISHED in a way he cannot explain—not that he needs to. There is nothing to explain, no ears willing and able to understand the gaping maw of silence in his temple where once there was the mindless, droning noise of the land, the hushed chatter of the devout.

Even the worshipersbipedharmlesshu-man? whose bodies remain are _wrong._ They rot and putrefy like the rest, bright plant coverings slowly turning dark and mottled, but they are _wrong_ foulbadDEATH. He nudges at a few, more out of curiosity than any hunger, and they all smell the same, sucked clean of any lifefoodmeatsurvival. 

Rodan's island has become a place of silent, lingering death. He had tried the other island, vital and teeming with life, but it is not _his._

So he returns.

It is the noise, on the third day, that draws his attentionnortheastthreat ?. Raw, healing wounds ache as he glides to the source of the noise—ordinarily, it would be inaudible over the din of the island, but the island is dead now, save for him. 

It is hardly more than a mass of blackenedrottingrawdying flesh.It lies on the hot sand, among the ruined structure of Rodan's worshipers. It is nearly unrecognizable, its scent obscured by this dead island and cooked flesh, but when italive ? raises its remainingmissinggone _dying_ head, bloodied and broken eyes meeting his own, he knowsKING. 

Had He been here this whole time? How had He come so far—with his wounds, it had taken Rodan hours to return to his island, and he has been alone for _days. How?_

Perhaps it does not matter. 

Rodan's King has returned.  

What he does not know is how to _fix. heal. _There is no life in this lifeless place, save for Himking, and he does not know what to do. But Heking chose himflightfireterrorロダン and Heking _must_ have believed he flightfireterrorロダンwould know what to do. 

He does not. 

Rodan does not remember the adultsparents family. He _must_ have had progenitors. He is not like Himking, who fell alone from the sky. 

This is his first memory: 

The anguished screamcryLOSS of what may have been a parentfamily ?, may have been something else entirely. On the damp and lonely nights, he would like to think that it was a parent. That, at some point, he was not alone on this barren, lifeless rock. 

But now, save for Himking _dying king,_ he is alone. 

But Rodan's king chose him for a reason. He _must_ be capable of fixing. 

Kingsafetyprotection would not have chosen him if he were not.

There is food, and he flies to get it, pushing past the invisible, circular ring of deathextinction surrounding his island, flying until his body screams, until his wounds reopen, dripping hot blood into freezing water. Rodan cries out—there is no one to hear him, no one to chastise his weakness.

Rodan has never met one like himロダンalone—or one like Himking. He does not know how to stop the rot. He does not know how to begin healing. 

He does not even know what his king _eats._ Does He eat? Rodan eats. The others eat. So his King _must_ eat. 

The kingゴジラ has a counterpart, so distantly related, so _weak,_ eats fish. The mothsモスラバトラdead ? consume plants. 

Rodan brings both. 

His King does not react to either. The headking _dying_ watches through half-lidded eyes as he pushes the foodlife ? closer. As he demonstrates, choking down vile green matter. And as he tries again, this time with the fishacceptableeat

And then the sharp eyes close, and Rodan feels fear. 

Hedyingking breathes still, head and neck sprawled inelegantly _elegant beautiful _out, resting on cold sand. 

It is then that the pain and weakness in his body overtakes him, and Rodan collapses. 

It is raining when he wakes. 

He is not meant for the cold. His bones ache, the old wounds sting as he perches on a rocky outcropping. From here, he can see his Kingdying _help,_ lying broken and wet on the sand. 

There is nothing he can do. He is small, too small to shield his King from the weather. His King was strong, strong enough to pull the winds to and fro, to bend them to his will. 

Now, his King seems to shiver in the rain. The blackened, raw mass of His body lies limp, and from this distance as broken lungs struggle to work in this dead air. 

There is nothing to do. 

It is not proper for him to approach his King. It is one thing to provide food, sustenance to his King. It is quite another to attempt to provide comfort _warmth home. _

But is not proper that his King should want for anything. Even if he cannot provide it, surely it would be far, far more wrong to not even _try?_

The headbroken does not look at him as he approaches. But his King is still awake; he can see the unblinking dark, golden eyes watching the rain. He crawls under a broken, skeletal wing, smelling the rancid, burned fleshalienHOME as his King struggles to heal in this dead land. Blackened, dead flesh sloughs off at the accidental touch, and his King snarls. 

It is the first response from his King. A part of him is overjoyed—his King _lives_ , his King is not as broken as he feared. But Rodan bows his head, murmurs a plaintive apology. His King growls once again, but this time, there is no snarl, no teeth. 

His King's body trembles, and then it it shifts, gently rolling over to the side. The sand is dry where His body lay, but cold. So cold. 

And then the wing comes up. It's thin, stripped of its scales and skin, leaving tendons and sinews exposed to the elements, but it is enough to stop the drops of rain from hitting his skin. 

There is a sigh, long and deep. It seems to draw the air closeso tighta nest? around them, and the soft patter of rain increases to a deafening tempo for one long moment. 

His King's body stills, and the rain stops.

At once, Rodan is afraid—his King is so foreignalienunnatural, he is not sure he would know if He truly died. But he leans closer, close enough to hear his King's remaining heart. It thrums in the now-quiet night, beating in time to his own. 

This angle leaves Rodan vulnerable. It leaves his King vulnerable. But his King seems to _want? _him here. Less importantly, he wants to remain. 

Far below the sky, in the cold sand, sheltered under a broken wing, Rodan sleeps. 

* * *

The sun is weak, pale and yellow as it struggles to pierce through thick clouds. 

The sun is weak, but his King is healing. It is slow—agonizingly so. The air around his island is _wrong,_ slow to heal and quick to kill. What little Rodan can smell is clouded with rotting prey and worshipers.

Even _his_ wound, the one that pierced so deeply through his flesh that it has crippled him still, is slow to heal.

 His King settles his body into the sea, snarling as the sharp water burns His body. There is so much damage, charred flesh that reeks of the false king's breath.

His King breathes out, though whether it is a sound of pain or relief, Rodan is unsure. But his King remains in the water and as he watches, the black dust and grime seep out into the empty water. All that remains is dull gold scales and raw flesh mottled with rotten green and black. 

Now, the remaining head lifts itself up, regarding him with something akin to curiosity. His King's eyes are brighter today, and they glitter in the sun, watching as he stands at the edge of the water. 

Life is returning to his island. The scavengersdetrivorebottom feeder arrive first, starving themselves on lifeless flesh. But as they rest, as Rodan and his King heal, other prey arrives. Stronger prey, creatures that will keep him from starving. So he perches, watching as his prey approaches, blind and dumb to his advances. 

In a flash of whistling air and cold water, his beak snaps around its prey. The prey tastes _wrong sterile, _but it is enough.  When he looks up, belly full and snout dripping, the King meets his eyes. And then the King's head dives into the water. It's nothing like Rodan's hunt; the King's hunt is sloppy. Experimental, as though He is going through the motions. Then Hisbeautifuleleganthead rises. 

His King emerges with a mouthful of prey and sand. He eatshealing? indiscriminately, chewing through sand and fish alike. And He turns, looks directly into Rodan's eyes. 

He battles the urge to look away, to bow and lower his head. Instead, he watches the King as He dives down again and again, looking up each time at Rodan. What is He looking for? Approval?Unthinkable. Kings do not need  _approval._

Finally, his King growls and stands on unsteady feet. Broken wings spread, and the weak light shines through the holes in his wings, but they keep Him balanced as He moves back up to the dry, cold sand. He stumbles then, falling to the ground with a massive thud.

Rodan trills, forcing aching wings to work as he moves to his King. Stinging cold shoots through his body and he trembles as he lands. His King does not react, but brokenbeautiful wings bend, tucking themselves against a black and dull gold body. White teeth flash in the pale light, and then His head settles into the sand with a huff. 

Genetic memory is a strange thing—of course, Rodan has no language to describe the fact that he _knows_ without ever seeing another of his kind, he _knows_ how to preen, how to clean his cohortmatefamily. It's what he does now, beak working to remove the remnants of dead flesh and dried sand from his King's head.

Though it lacks any real malice, his King snarls, head swiveling over to nip at his wings, but then he settles, neck stretching out to its full length. So he continues preening his King, taking care to avoid the deepest, rawest wounds. He avoids the stumps of his King's slowly-reforming heads, tending instead to His torso, His wings. 

The King remains still under his ministrations, save for occasionally shifting His body to allow Rodan easier access. His King's heart is stronger now. And as Rodan listens, he hears two other hearts begin to beat.

* * *

The human worshipers arrive. They always do; he is used to the worshipers and their rituals, the pungent smoke and red meat and tasteless foliage they offer him. 

His King is not. His King feeds on fear, on destruction, but He is still weak. Despite the golden shine returning to His scales, His snarl is hollow and weak, and after a moment the King lowers His head onto the sand. His remaining tail thrashes, rattling in the surf, but it is so soft, barely audible above the pounding waves.

Rodan snarls as the humans approach. They smell foul to his King, Rodan knows, covered in the stench of His loss. 

The worshipers follow the lead of one human, one who is always careful to avert its eyes and hold its arms out in a show of deference. That human smells the foulest, as though he has personally been touched by the other kingゴジラ.

He allows the humans to approach. The leader, the deferring one comes the closest but does not dare touch. Instead it brings out metal things that hum and chime. When Rodan does not react, the other worshipers are encouraged, waving their contraptions in the air, chattering mindlessly as they gather at his feet. 

His King snarls once more, but it is soft. Rodan unfurls his wings and screeches—his King may be weak, but he is not. The humans cry and protest and scatter. Satisfied, the King huffs and lowers his head. 

The worshipers do not bring food. They crowd as close to the King as He allows before growling. The humans speak with hushed chatter, reverent voices. Rodan wonders if his King will acclimate to the worship. 

The worshipers do not bring food, but they remove the sterile and rotting human bodies, use their metal tools to remove the dead prey from the water and sand. 

Rodan supposes it is adequate. 

* * *

A pained cry pulls Rodan out of his sleep. It is nearing the end of the night; the sun's weak rays struggle to emerge from the darkness. As the planet turns and the worshipers come and go and the King heals, resting beside his King has become habit, waking tucked against his King's side, with his King's wing draped over his body.

Something cold and wet hits his wing. He sniffs at it, curious, but it smells like his King. Rodan is more concerned with the cry, with the three hearts frantically pounding in sync. 

The other two heads are struggling, trying to emerge from clear, fluid filled sacseggrebirth. The lone head whines as it struggles to free His other heads, but He is still weak, with a weak jaw and brittle teeth mouthing at the sac. 

Rodan chirps. The worshipers are gone, but even if they were here, the King would not allow them close enough to help. The King thrashes, snarling as He slams its wrapped heads against the sand. 

And then He stills, heads settling on the ground. Rodan moves.

His beak is barely strong enough—he is not meant for this, but the King chose _him,_ so he is capable. The membrane is tougher than it looks, thick and clear as it protects his King's heads. Finally they are free, and his King roars in triumph.

And then three heads turn in sync. Three pairs of eyes lock onto his, then separate. The middle holds his gaze. The right huffs. The left noses his wings, pausing over the old, still-healing wound. A forked tongue snakes out, and there is an experimental lick. His body is hot, too hot for his King to lick comfortably. But his Kingstrong whole does it anyway.

He waits. The King continues His examination, licking his wound and mouthing at his crest. Rodan moves closer, close enough to hear his King's hearts. 

His King growls. Rodan bows. Three heads work as one, pulling him closer and closer until his King trembles at the heat of Rodan's body. His wings unfurl to their full width and his King's middle head roars. It echoes in his mind, a humming in his bones and Rodan bows, lowering his head to meet his King's. His King blinks, long and slow as He watches Rodan watch Him. 

Apparently satisfied, his King withdraws, necks twisting and sliding as they pull away. His body feels cold—there is none of the pain, none of the ice that shoots through his body when he flies too far. His King feels warm now, and Rodan realizes it has been some time since it has rained. 

Together, they watch the sun rise.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his long, long life, he wishes for death. 
> 
> He wishes his broken body would give in.
> 
> He wishes the others were here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for suicidal ideation, injury recovery.

This is his first memory: 

Rank, dead space filled with dying and dead flesh. _His_ dead flesh, he realizes. He is dying, but he is _alone,_ and somehow, that's even worse. The insects are poking and prodding at his neck, slicing strips of his hide off like he's some kind of—

He manages a weak roar and he _grows._

He's never done this before—never grown like this, building a body instead of building another limb, another head. It's agonizingly painful and he screams, if only to hear something other than his raw body as it flops uselessly on the ground. 

His head smashes through the insect's flimsy dwelling, and the rush of salt air and the _heat_. It hits him like a wave of nausea, if he had a stomach and he flails in the open, stifling air. And he is still alone. The others are still gone; he can't feel them. There isn't even a hint of their thoughts in the undercurrent of _him._

He is alone.

For the first time in his long, long life, he wishes for death. 

He wishes his broken body would give in.

He wishes the others were here. 

* * *

The smell hits him first. His ears are broken and his eyes are bleeding, but he _smells_ it. and he knows it now—there is little else to do in this dark and empty world than dig through memories. It's not him, it's not his brothers, safe and whole and coming to save him from this hell. 

It's his follower. His disciple. His heir. He smells like the center of this world, like warmth and stone. 

Has he been sent here to kill him? Is this his final punishment, the humiliation of being killed by his protector?

His eyes are broken, showing his disciple as little more than a dark blur against a darker background. But it's not right to see out of two eyes when he should see out of six, so he doesn't bother trying to see anything more.

His mouth doesn't work, either, and he's hungry—the energy from the weak sun is barely enough to keep him awake. His ears ring and whine, but he hears his disciple leave, feels the rush of air as his wings snap once, twice. 

And then protector is gone, and he is alone again.

He manages a single sound: a low whine, as much a noise of surrender as it is a cry for help. The silence provides no response, offers no comfort. 

Sleep evades him, so he watches the shadows move. It's still impossible to see anything more than vague, dark shapes as the sun travels from horizon to horizon, so he must content himself with watching the shadows. 

Now that his disciple is gone, it's quiet. Not as quiet as the suffocating silence of the void, but it's thick and stifling all the same. Once, he thinks he hears a cry, a faint echo of his own plea. But then there is nothing. 

Though he's been looking, watching time pass in terms of shadows and light, it's still a surprise when something hits his snout. 

He openes his eyes, takes an experimental sniff. 

It's...dead. 

It's dead organic matter, to be precise, what the planet's lower lifeforms eat in order to sustain their life. He has no use for it—the energy from the sun and air and stars are all he needs. Consuming this dead matter would burn more energy than he would gain. There is no reason to eat. 

Why was this given to him? His protector is here, watching him intently. As he watches, a tapered beak snaps up a portion of the dead. Does he expect him to eat it? Why does he eat it? Does he eat because he enjoys it?  Does he think he _needs_ to? What a strange creature to take such pleasure in such a strange ritual, or to be so confused, so ignorant of his own abilities.

* * *

It's raining, now. 

He isn't strong enough to create anything stronger than a drizzle, but he smells it: the scent of rain hitting hot rock. It's familiar, the only familiar thing in this alien world. 

His disciple has returned. He has been here for some time, perched on a rocky outcropping, watching him with wide, orange eyes. He can smell the steam rising up from his disciple's back and wings, and from this distance, he can even see the glowing hole in his chest. 

He blinks away the rain as it runs down his face, forces his body to shake away the water. It's a temporary relief from the maddening itch that plagues his newly-created flesh.

His protector slinks closer. The smell fills his nose as he approaches, that warm, familiar scent of his disciple. He gets closer, close enough that jagged rock brushes against his raw flesh. 

He manages a weak snarl—a hatchling would have made a more intimidating sound, but he manages to bare his teeth, taking a quick breath of warm air as his disciple bows. 

That pitying, condescending bow is very nearly infuriating—there is _nothing_ to be afraid of. He is a broken, beaten thing, but still the bird bows. The disciple averts his eyes, looks down at the wet rock. 

He manages a weak growl, shifting his body to get a better look at his heir and his disciple gets even  _closer._

No one has gotten closer to him before—not willingly, not unless they wish him harm. But his knight is warm, a balm against the cold rain. 

His protector shivers in the rain. Does he not like it? It is a byproduct of _him,_ but it is the only thing he produces that is of this world. Everything else is unnatural— _he_ is unnatural, and his knight is getting closer to him.  

He lifts a wing. It is the least he can do, to shield the warmth crouched against his side. His knight chirps, then settles against his side. He sighs, letting his eyes close. 

Again, his protector chirps. Is he concerned? There is no need to fear—even if he wanted to, he is too weak to kill, or even to hurt him. Or is it the rain he hates? 

He doesn't know, and there is no way to find out.

* * *

Days pass. 

He is alone, but he is not _alone._ His protector remains close—he moves away when he snarls, comes closer during the night, when the rain is the strongest. Though he has no need to, he eats. His protector eats, so he learns to eat. He's not sure if the taste is intended to be a part of the enjoyment. It tastes too much like the world's defender—all salt and wet flesh. 

He thinks he would prefer something from the earth itself. 

He is still weak, moving on unsteady feet and broken wings. He stumbles, falling to the earth with a dull thud. 

His protector squawks—is he upset? angry?, gliding ever closer, until he comes to a stop beside his head. He tucks his wings against his body, allowing his protector to get even closer. 

Hot breath hits his snout as his protector kneels. He meets his protector's eyes—the sun reflects its light into the wild orange and yellow, so different from his own burned golden eyes. 

There is a soft chirp, and he feels a sharp beak scrape against his muzzle. He snarls, more out of habit than any real malice. Tired muscles ache as he lifts his head to halfheartedly mouth at his knight's wings, but his protector pays him no mind and continues to—what? clean him? 

He's never been cleaned before. Not like this. 

He remembers the others; the _rest_ of him, the ones dead and gone. He remembers teeth against his horns, cleaning blood and ash from their body. He remembers the sharp taste in his mouth, blood from uncountable wounds, from uncountable conquests. They had cleaned each other, slowly and gently and methodically, but he has never had someone _else_ clean him. 

The wings are the worst, all bones and raw, exposed nerves. He wants his protector to clean them, to strip away the maddening itch and leave pure agony. He wants his protector to leave, but he wants him to stay, to stay so close he will never wake up thinking he is alone. He wants the others, and he wants to be alone, to drift off into the silent night. 

The wings are avoided. The stumps of slowly-growing necks are avoided. 

He settles for allowing his protector to do as he wishes, moving to allow his knight easier access to his body.

He closes his eyes, wondering if he can pretend the others are here.

Sometimes, when the night is quiet and the air is still, he thinks he can hear their heartbeats.

* * *

He settles back into the hazy, half-rest, waking only when the rank scent of seawater and sharp metal wafts up from the beach. The scent has his hearts pounding, wings stretching out to kick up a storm strong enough to push back the defender. 

A second later, and he realizes: the scent of the defender is old. Still there, but it is days—if not weeks—old. It is old, and it comes from the bipeds approaching his knight.

He manages a low growl, manages to thrash his tail, but he is still _weak._

His knight is not weak, and he feels a burst of pride as his protector shrieks and kicks up a massive gust of wind, one strong enough to knock the humans off their feet. 

And then his knight just _stands_ there, and he can only watch as they get up and move _closer._

* * *

Sometimes, he thinks he can hear them.

Mostly when it's loud, or when his eyes are open. He can see clearly now, can focus on his protector's eyes as they study him. Sharp talons hold his muzzle in place, but now, everything hurts less, even the stone beak rubbing against the thin scales on his jaw feels different. 

Perhaps he is getting used to this. 

 _Where are we?_ they ask. _What happened?_

 _We are safe,_ he thinks, and they do not believe him. They do not see what he sees, their knight standing guard during the day, resting at his side in the dark. They do not see how he keeps the biped creatures at bay until they have been trained to avoid him. They do not know how not-lonely it feels to press your snout against the soft rock on someone's back, someone who is as not-lonely as you.

 

 _We are safe,_ he thinks. 

* * *

And then he wakes in agony. 

Their thoughts have breached the surface of his mind, crying out in pain and fear because they can't see, they can't even _breathe,_ and his jaws are too weak to free them. He snarls and hates how weak it sounds, like a mewling hatchling crying for its parent. He lurches upright and rubs the head-stubs into the rough sand and hard rock, stopping only when his protector trills. 

Can he? Is he strong enough? He is of this planet. He is not strong. He has never been tempered from the cold of space and the burn of reentry. 

He feels his protector's beak latch onto the thick membrane that surrounds their newborn heads. There's two sharp tugs in quick succession, and he is  _free._

They cry out at the wonder of warm air against their faces. His sight, limited to two eyes for so, _so_ long, expands and comes into focus. 

They blink. once, then twice. 

His protector chirps. As one, they turn to gaze at him. 

One narrows his eyes, bends over to examine their protector disciple knight. His protector disciple knightdoesn't move, doesn't pull away when they examine the still-healing wounds on his body. He watches his protector disciple knight through one set of eyes as the others examine him, taking in the sharp ridges of his stone back, the jagged lines of fire that streak across his wings. 

Their own wings are still healing, too weak to support a flight, but they are strong enough to pull their protector disciple knightcloser, close enough that that his breath mingles with theirs in the warm night air. He does not resist.

He tastes like the molten earth, so unlike the sharp, salty smell of the sea. They feel the sun's weak rays hit their scales, and wonder at the way the light dances off their protector disciple knighteyes.

He think they could learn to like it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [soundwavereporting.]()

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! You can find me on [tumblr!](https://soundwavereporting.tumblr.com)


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